


The Highland Fling

by wateroverstone



Category: Biggles Series - W. E. Johns
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-20
Updated: 2015-10-20
Packaged: 2018-04-27 07:17:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5038954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wateroverstone/pseuds/wateroverstone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are periods of ordinary life between adventures. What do Biggles and Algy do? One thing leads to another. Plot? What plot?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Highland Fling

Biggles and Algy were breakfasting companionably .They’d been back in England for a few weeks now. Their Brazilian tans had faded and the last of the insect bites healed. Algy, having finished with his correspondence, had a morning paper, half folded, by his plate, from which he was reading tidbits of news out loud. Biggles was opening and perusing a variety of envelopes, the contents of some obviously pleasing him more than others.

‘Listen,’ he said a little indistinctly round a mouthful of toast. ‘Pendersby’s getting married. He writes that all the old crowd will be there. Fancy a few days in the Scottish Highlands?’

Algy was agreeable. They’d both liked Pendersby, whom they’d known in France, and had a number of friends and acquaintances in common. A train timetable was consulted, and a small bothy just a short mile up river from the wedding venue, hired for a week. Algy looked out his fishing rods whilst Biggles visited a book store and corresponded with some of the other guests to arrange additional meetings. At the last minute they remembered to buy and pack a small gift. 

They caught the overnight sleeper train to Fort William and picked up the car they’d hired, driving first to the farmhouse on the River Nevis, from where they’d rented the bothy, to pick up the keys. The farmer’s wife looked at them somewhat askance, which had them puzzled, but she handed over the keys readily enough and told them to come round in the mornings if they wanted breakfast. 

The bothy was smaller than they’d both expected. Biggles wondered why it had a door key. He could only suppose it was for the security of the items the fishermen who usually hired it brought with them. It certainly wasn't for intrinsic value of its furnishings. It was a tiny one room cottage with a beaten earth floor, a couple of stools by a small fireplace and one double bed. A few hooks on the wall were obviously intended to serve in lieu of a wardrobe.

‘That’s not what I booked,’ complained Biggles. ‘C’mon. Let’s go back and get it sorted out.

 

They returned to the farmhouse, where, struggling with the strong dialect of the farmer’s wife, they eventually made out that what she considered a double room and what they meant by a double room were two entirely different things. Looking at them rather more kindly, she apologised for not having anything else available, it being the fishing season.

Biggles shrugged. ‘Maybe one of us can pick up a spare bed with someone else over the week. I certainly wasn’t expecting to sleep there every night. We can’t worry about it now. We've only just time to get changed and to the wedding.’

Biggles paid very little attention to the service. He never did. He looked at the other guests and remembered things they’d done. He sang the hymns cheerfully in an unmelodious baritone. He read the memorials on the wall of the church and wondered about the local families. If asked to describe what the bride had worn or what flowers she carried, he could have done, but only because he was trained in the habit of close and accurate observation and not because he had any interest. 

Gathering with the other men outside the church, Biggles and Algy smoked and chatted until the photographer was finished, the bride’s rituals completed and the party could move off to the local hotel where the rest of the proceedings were to take place. In the hotel, Biggles was pleased to see all of Pendersby’s bachelor friends had been placed on a table together for the wedding breakfast, so he didn’t have to be polite to any elderly female relatives, an occurrence that sometimes marred weddings, in his opinion. By late afternoon, seated in the bar with some friends he hadn't seen for years, Biggles was ready to vote this one of the best weddings he’d ever attended. Even the news that it would turn into a Ceilidh failed to dampen his spirits.

Pendersby, having been polite to all of the relatives, came over to join them, thanked them for coming and introduced them to more people. Their end of the bar became rowdy and raucous. Still more people arrived. His bride collected Pendersby and made him return to his duties as host. The band struck up and the Ceilidh started.

Algy spotted the red headed bridesmaid watching the dancers by herself, a wistful expression on her face, and seized his opportunity, disappearing into the whirling noise with her and not emerging for a considerable time. Biggles planned to follow his custom of dancing to a couple of songs with whichever of his friends’ wives were present that he actually liked, and then smoking on the terrace with some cronies, but found himself caught up in the fun. It was more like a Mess Night than a formal dance, he reflected, stripping the willow vigorously with a complete stranger. 

The night came to an end. Biggles escaped gratefully onto the terrace as the last waltz played and mopped his face as he lit a cigarette. ‘Is it cooler in a kilt?’ he asked his companions, ‘because I’ll make sure I’m dressed for it next time. Where’s Algy, anyway? He’s got the cottage keys.’

Algy was finally discovered in a quiet corner, saying goodnight to a girl who wasn't the red headed bridesmaid he’d started with. 

‘Romeo! Time for home.’

Biggles had no compunction about interrupting.

Algy gave the girl a final press of her hands and turned. 

‘Elspeth’s a keen fisherwoman,’ he said happily. ‘She’s going to show me the best spots to fish from. And we’re going to play tennis on Tuesday.’

‘You’re a brave woman to go near Algy when he’s trying to cast a line,’ grinned Biggles. ‘You’ll need protective clothing. And I hope you know First Aid for when he falls in the river.’  
‘I only did that once,’ protested Algy, ‘And you fell in, too.’

‘I was laughing so much I lost my balance,’ admitted Biggles. ‘Nice to make your acquaintance, Miss, but it’s time for me to wander home to my bed. Goodnight.’

They walked along the river path companionably, sharing some of the jokes of the night. The moon was half concealed by thin cloud, but enough light reflected from the water for them to make out their way. Groping on the small shelf behind the door, Biggles triumphantly produced the stub of candle he’d noticed there earlier and lit it. After a moment it gave off enough light for them to avoid tripping over the stools and to find their bags. Biggles dripped a little wax onto a bed post and stuck the candle into it so they could see to get undressed, for the faint moonlight completely failed to penetrate into the cottage.

‘Left side or right?’ he asked Algy politely once they were in their pyjamas. 

‘Left’ shrugged Algy, ‘unless you've a preference.’ 

Biggles blew out the candle and climbed into the bed where he promptly slid into the middle where Algy was already ensconced. The bed had a very pronounced dip. A short experiment proved that whilst they could hook arms and feet around the bed posts, as soon as they relaxed, they rolled back into the middle. They turned their backs on each other, moved as far away as the dip allowed, and fell asleep.

Biggles awoke a short time later. He was cold. Algy had taken the blankets. He reached over Algy to retrieve them and lay on his back until such time as he should start to feel sleepy again. Disturbed, Algy turned over, flinging one arm across Biggles. Biggles considered moving it, but he was cold and Algy’s arm was warm, Algy being one of those people who still have warm hands when gloveless in a snowball fight. Algy readily admitted that he had a higher body temperature than was usual and put his internal furnace down to everywhere being so much hotter than the place he grew up. Just now, Biggles was glad of it.

Biggles relaxed back towards sleep, breathing in the warm, familiar smell of Algy: the soap he habitually used, the stuff he used on his hair to try to keep it under control; the clean sweat from his exertions at the Ceilidh; the lemon verbena aftershave that came out for special occasions. The sheets smelt of lavender. He was soon nearly asleep again.

In his sleep, Algy wriggled closer and Biggles became suddenly more wakeful as he found himself with a conundrum to solve. Part of Algy was unexpectedly hard and jabbing him in the thigh. Biggles tried to think of a way of waking Algy that wouldn't embarrass him. Algy wriggled again, and Biggles relaxed. That was more comfortable. He wondered if Algy was dreaming of the red-headed bridesmaid or Elspeth. Biggles became aware of some stirrings in his own loins. He was surprised because none of the women he’d encountered that night were really to his taste. Algy was drawing little circles with his thumb over Biggles’s skin, and Biggles abruptly became aware that it was what Algy was doing that he was finding pleasant. He had no idea what to do. Every action seemed a mistake, but he really couldn't continue to lie there while Algy mistook him for someone else, however nice it felt.

It was of course, at this point, that Algy moved his hand, encountered something unexpected and woke up.

‘What on earth are you doing?’ spluttered Algy.

‘What am I doing?’ Biggles was indignant.’ I was just lying here and you mistook me for god knows who and I really cannot be held responsible for what my body does when I’m asleep.’

Algy took in their relative positions and apologised. Biggles wasn't sure he sounded very apologetic though, and he’d have been quite right. Algy was very observant and not very imaginative. Algy, lying rigidly with his back to Biggles as far away as the dip permitted, was drawing some conclusions that would have made Biggles blush.

Biggles, also lying rigidly as far away from Algy as the dip permitted, was very conscious of Algy’s tension.

‘Relax,’ he muttered. ‘You’re stopping me from sleeping you’re so stiff.’

Algy choked with laughter. 

‘I didn't mean it like that,’ Biggles said crossly. ‘You know what I meant.’

They were tired enough, and perhaps they’d drunk enough, that they both fell asleep quickly, and by morning Biggles had convinced himself that it hadn’t happened, or if it had, he’d much exaggerated his reaction.

It was a grey day as they walked to the farmhouse for their breakfast. Algy, who was looking forward to a day’s fishing, was hopeful that it would make the fish rise to his bait. Biggles was re-jigging his day. He’d planned to pick up the hire car from where they’d left it in Fort William and go for a run to see something of the Highland scenery before meeting a friend for dinner and staying over. Now, he thought that he’d explore Fort William and stay locally until it was time to meet his friend, because of the risk of rain, which, as he explained to Algy, would prevent him from seeing any of the scenery which was the object of his drive. Still, he’d expected some rain so he’d come up with alternatives for most of his days.

It did indeed rain. Biggles, with his customary weather sense, made it into the museum just as the first drops fell. 

 

 

Biggles, carrying his overnight case in one hand and a small bunch of flowers for his host’s wife in the other, with a bottle tucked under his arm, heard a baby crying as the door was opened. 

‘He’s teething,’ explained his host, wincing. ‘Apparently the blighters don’t like it and you can’t tell them to be brave little soldiers at that age. Come into the study. You won’t hear him there.’

Biggles followed, rethinking his intention to stay the night.

Despite the baby, Biggles had a thoroughly enjoyable time. His host had invited a few other couples to dinner and he found them pleasant company. He mentioned that he had been to the local museum and seen its collection of Jacobite Rebellion mementos, which set his nearest dinner companion, a retired Major, off on his hobbyhorse.

‘It was a perfectly winnable campaign,’ the Major said vigorously. ‘If they’d just had the sense to..’ 

He began to illustrate his points with the salt cellar and various glasses.

All the men at the table had military experience, and soon there was a lively debate on what should have happened. The table was turned into a map of the campaign, the retiring of the ladies was hardly noticed, and the arrival of the port only gave them pause because of its quality. Various theories had still not been fully tested and resolved when the women returned to collect their menfolk, and Biggles, making his excuses to his relieved hostess, whose baby could still be heard crying in the background, drove carefully back to the bothy. 

He let himself in quietly, so as not to disturb Algy, and undressed in the pitch darkness. Suddenly he was illuminated in a powerful beam. 

‘Where’d you get that from?’ he asked, straightening up with a sock in his hand. 

‘I borrowed it from the farm,’ explained Algy. ‘A fisherman left it behind. I didn’t want to take the car torch in case you needed it. I thought you were away tonight and I was being burgled.’

‘Teething baby,’ explained Biggles. ‘Absence seemed to be the better part of discretion. Sorry to spoil your excitement. Where are my pyjamas?’

A moment’s recollection told Biggles that he’d left them in his overnight case at his friend’s house. Sighing he put his underpants and vest back on and crawled into the bed.

Biggles slept extremely well that night and very heavily for him. He woke spooned tightly into Algy, who hadn't slept as well.

‘Every time I was sleeping, you’d move and I would feel the silk, and then I’d wake up wondering who on earth I was with and then I’d realise it was you,’ complained Algy as they dressed. ‘If you don’t collect your pyjamas today, you need to buy some new ones. And some bed socks so you don’t need me as a hot water bottle.’

‘You’re a very good hot water bottle,’ grinned Biggles. ‘Someone should start making full size ones. They’d be very popular. Though I suppose they’d take an age to fill and then spring a leak in the middle of the night. Rather like you, actually.’

Algy threw a shoe at Biggles. 

Neither of them mentioned the erections they’d woken up with.

 

It was a glorious day, which Algy thought would frighten the fish away, so they collected a picnic lunch from the farmer’s wife and went to explore the Highlands. They drove cautiously along the single track roads, walked along a lochside and watched the seals. Biggles was impressed by the scenery, which resembled nothing he had seen before, and matched map names to the history he had learnt at school. Algy half listened as he examined the countryside for deer and game birds, assessing the sport that could be had. 

Biggles had made no arrangements for dinner that night, so they dined together at a local hotel and had a drink at the bar, talking to some of the residents, travellers and visitors who also were frequenting the hotel. They walked slowly back to the bothy, Algy keeping a sharp eye on the river to see where the fish were jumping. 

Back at the bothy, there was just enough light to see to get changed before sliding into the bed, back to back and as widely separated as the dip allowed. Biggles sincerely hoped he’d wake up in the same position. That was, of course, tempting fate.

Biggles woke up sweating, trying to hit out, but something was stopping him. . He tried again to lash out, but his hands were being held and his legs were trapped. 

‘Stop struggling,’ complained a familiar voice. ‘What was it? Stuck in a plane crash? You were thrashing about fit to break the bed, and it’s in a sorry enough state as it is.’

Biggles started to relax as he realised it was just Algy kneeling over him and restraining him. ‘Sorry. Did I hit you? Actually it was a giant octopus. I was trying to escape but it had arms everywhere.’

‘I’ve had girlfriends like that,’ agreed Algy. ‘Did it manage to eat you?’

‘I wasn’t trying to eat me,’ Biggles said, as the relevant part of the dream came back. ‘It wanted me as its love slave.’

Algy howled with laughter and collapsed on top of Biggles. ‘You want some tentacular love?’ he asked, wriggling suggestively, and then pausing as the evidence suggested that that was, indeed, the case.

Biggles took advantage of the hesitation to wrest a hand out of Algy’s grasp and slide it straight under Algy’s pyjama jacket. 

‘I’ll show you what tentacles can do,’ he snarled and went for Algy’s ticklish spot. Algy squeaked and squirmed. Biggles hooked his ankles over Algy’s to hold him in place and continued. 

‘Pax,’ gasped Algy breathlessly. ‘Pax. Oh hell, stop it. Please.’

Biggles relented and allowed Algy to regain his breath, keeping his fingers on his side as a reminder to ensure good behaviour. Algy had soft, smooth skin, Biggles reflected, and he felt nice stretched out over him like this, all hot and familiar. It dawned on Biggles just how pleasant he was finding Algy’s proximity, and he thought he’d stay very still in the hope that Algy wouldn't notice. Algy took a deep breath and Biggles realised that he wasn't the only one responding physically.

‘You want more tentacular love?’ he asked Algy lightly, unsure of how else to play the situation. 

‘Let’s find out.’ Algy moved his mouth to Biggles’s, a hand to under Biggles’s backside and pushed against him. Rather taken aback by the speed with which Algy had moved things on, although he really should be used to Algy’s impetuosity by now, he reflected, Biggles closed his eyes and joined in enthusiastically.

A few minutes later, conscious of a rapidly cooling sticky patch:

‘I think we should have taken our pyjamas off,’ grumbled Biggles. ‘Where’s that torch of yours? I’m swapping to my underwear.’

 

 

In the morning, Algy took extra care washing and shaving.

‘Why are you doing yourself up like a dog’s dinner?’ asked Biggles curiously. ‘Do you think it will impress the fish?’

‘I’m playing tennis with Elspeth,’ Algy reminded him. ‘Should I put aftershave on do you think?’

‘Only if you want to knock your opponents out. Yes, you need every advantage that you can get.’

 

Now, Elspeth’s mother had not, initially, been very pleased that Elspeth had invited a complete stranger to play tennis, and Elspeth had endured a number of lectures on being too forward and ruining her chances of making a decent marriage. However, some cautious inquiries had put a different complexion on the matter, and Elspeth’s mother, aware that titled, decorated, war heroes that everyone seemed to like, were in fairly short supply, had arranged quite a reasonable little tennis party at short notice. Elspeth’s objections that Algy didn't have his sports gear with him were noted, and her late husband’s and eldest son’s tennis whites and plimsolls were looked out for Algy to borrow. 

Algy, arriving a few moments early, was met at the gate by one of Elspeth’s younger brothers who had been sent to look out for the grocer’s boy who was to take back the delivery he had left that morning and to replace it with what had actually been ordered. 

‘Are you the chap that everyone’s making all that fuss about? he asked Algy.

‘I hope not,’ replied Algy frankly. ‘Why are they making a fuss?’

‘Dunno. They’re just being female, I think. Females get worked up about some very strange things. What regiment were you in?’

‘RFC, actually,’ Algy told him, ‘266 squadron, fighters.’

Elspeth’s brother came to abrupt attention. ‘You were in the RFC? Did you fly Camels?’

Algy nodded.

‘You’re not the Captain Lacey that I’ve read about in the papers, are you? The one who flew with Major Bigglesworth?’

Algy nodded again. 

‘I wish I could meet him,’ breathed the boy.

‘Well, if you walk along the banks of the Nevis, you might.’ Algy told him. ‘I think he said he was going to sit out and read his book this morning.’

‘Gosh!’ said the boy, ‘Gosh!’ and disappeared up the road, all thoughts of the grocer’s boy having vanished.

 

 

Biggles was not surprised to see a boy walking along the banks of the river: boys and water going together like ham and eggs, but he was surprised to be greeted by name.

‘Yes, I’m Major Bigglesworth,’ he confirmed. ‘Is everything alright?’

‘Oh yes,’ said the boy. ‘Captain Lacey said I might see you here. Can I have your autograph?’

A rummage through the boy’s pockets producing only a broken pencil stub and a selection of objects that couldn't be written on, Biggles got out his own notebook and fountain pen.

‘What’s your name?’ he asked, reflecting that Algy must be quite taken with Elspeth if he was sending random boys connected with her to meet him.

‘May you always have clear skies and soft landings, Hamish,’ he wrote, ‘Major J C Bigglesworth.’

‘Gosh,’ said Hamish. ‘Thank you. Gosh.’

‘Are you interested in flying?’ Biggles asked politely.

Once started off, Hamish proved a fluent talker with a good knowledge of aviation. Biggles answered his questions, amused, for half an hour, after which Hamish suddenly recollected what he should have been doing.

‘Gosh, I’d better go. I hope I haven’t missed that mouldy grocer’s boy. Mother will be ever so cross if I have. She wants to make a good impression on Captain Lacey for some reason but I'm not sure why she thinks making cheese straws will do it.’

Biggles sent him on his way, telling him to be sure to get Captain Lacey’s autograph, too, and to get Captain Lacey to tell him the story of the humbugs. He picked up his book again, but didn't immediately settle. Algy could look after himself, he told himself. This wasn't the first time someone had thought Algy would be a good catch for their daughter, and Algy was skilled at having a pleasant flirtation without making any promises, although Algy himself would have vehemently denied that that was what he did.

 

 

Algy was enjoying himself very much. He liked Elspeth and he liked playing tennis. He’d met some splendid chaps and was being well looked after by his hostess. His hostess, a sensible woman, had taken one look at Algy and written him off as a charming young man who was not, unfortunately, the sort to stay smitten with one girl for long. She could quite see why other men liked him and she didn’t think he was the sort to settle for her Elspeth, although miracles might happen. 

Algy won all his sets (with appropriate modesty), enjoyed a tour round the garden with Elspeth, made all the right social noises at lunch and tea, signed an autograph for Hamish whilst relating the humbug story, and departed to have dinner at one of the local hotels with a chap he’d played tennis against who was thinking about buying a ‘plane to use in his business. His hostess sighed. Algy was a lovely lad. She thought it was his slightly unkempt appearance that made him so dangerous. He looked like he needed looking after. She hoped he wasn't staying long in the area.

 

‘How was tennis and Elspeth?’ asked Biggles as Algy returned. 

‘Great,’ said Algy grinning. ‘She’s got a really good backhand, and there were some spiffing people at the tennis party. How long did her kid brother stay?’ 

’Not that long,’ Biggles grinned back. ‘He suddenly remembered that he was meant to be at the garden gate to catch the grocer’s boy so you could be impressed by cheese straws.’

‘He didn't manage it, then. There weren't any cheese straws and I’d have noticed because I like ‘em.’

‘When are you seeing her again?’

‘No idea.’ Algy tried for dignity. ‘She might walk along the riverbank tomorrow and say hello if I'm fishing.’

The last of the light began to drain from the sky.

‘Bedtime,’ yawned Biggles.

 

Pulling on pyjamas that were still damp in patches, because after rinsing them out and hanging them on pegs neither had thought to rearrange them so they dried evenly, Biggles looked incredulously at Algy.

‘Do you spend your life over excited?’ he asked.

Algy glared and got into bed, lying face down.

‘Usually,’ he said rather indistinctly ‘a chap can lie on his bed in privacy until things settle back to normal. I don’t seem to have that option here.’

Biggles slid in next to him. ‘Turn over. You’ve got all the flat bit of the bed.’

Algy did. 

‘Stop poking me in the back,’ grumbled Biggles.

‘If you want me to stop poking you in the back, you’ll have to do something about it,’ Algy announced, with a rather martyred air.

Biggles ignored him. Algy moved closer. ‘It’ll disturb us all night if you don’t.’

Biggles sighed. ‘We’ll take our pyjamas off this time.’ He wasn’t sorry to have an excuse to take the clammily damp things off.

 

Biggles ran his slightly cool hand over the warmth that was Algy. Algy caught his breath and pushed encouragingly. ‘This bit,’ he said helpfully.

Biggles moved his hand and stroked Algy from balls to tip and back. Algy made happy noises and

‘Use your mouth?’ he asked hopefully. 

‘What did your last slave die of?’ 

‘Under use,’ replied Algy. ‘Please?’

Biggles cautiously moved down the bed until he was astride Algy’s legs and licked exploratorily. There was a most satisfactory response. Encouraged, Biggles began experimenting to see exactly what elicited which noises from Algy, pausing only to remove Algy’s hands from his head. He wanted to be in control of speed and depth. Algy panted and tried to push. Biggles held his hips down with one forearm and curled round so he could get a hand to Algy as well as his mouth. Algy was appreciative of that. Suddenly, Algy bucked under him and a salty fluid hit the back of his throat in hard pulses. Biggles tried to swallow, spit and gag simultaneously, whilst Algy urgently told him not to move.

‘You could give a fellow some warning,’ Biggles complained, lighting a cigarette to take the taste away and passing one to Algy.

‘Sorry,’ apologised Algy, ‘but you’re going to love it when I’ve got my breath back and it’s your turn.’

Biggles did. 

Again, he slept unusually heavily, waking up spooned into Algy. He stretched.

‘I’ve been mistaken all these years. I’m not a light sleeper. I’ve just been kept awake by the cold ever since I left India.’

 

 

Biggles was away the next couple of days, meeting up with old friends and getting news of others. He was well entertained, well fed and, he was relieved to find, he slept very well on his own without missing Algy’s presence at all. He returned to find a message at the bothy from Algy, telling him to go round to Elspeth’s for dinner that night. With it was a rather more formal letter of invitation from Elspeth’s mother. 

Biggles considered sending his apologies saying he had got back too late to attend, then reflecting someone would have seen the car return and Algy would be disappointed in him if he didn't go, changed and drove round to the address on the letter at the appointed time. It was their final night there. He wasn't committing himself to doing the pretty more than this once.

Elspeth’s mother had invited several of her friends and their adult children round, as well as Biggles and Algy. Algy was, in vulgar terms, a catch and it would be silly not to give Elspeth a chance at fixing her interest with him, however unlikely to happen she, herself, thought it. 

It was an informal, lively evening, much better than Biggles had expected. The meal was straight forward, and the evening given over to a few silly games then billiards or dancing to band music on the radio. Algy did dance with Elspeth, but he also partnered Biggles at billiards against a couple of challengers, leaving Elspeth to score for them. Biggles, who Elspeth’s mother considered potentially almost as dangerous as Algy but who luckily wasn't showing any interest in any of the girls (although that air of pleasant reserve would be a challenge to some) had mentioned that he hoped to get a job abroad, perhaps as a survey pilot, in response to a question over dinner. Elspeth’s mother thought that Biggles had an unsettled look to him and that Algy was more interested in exploring the four corners of the world with him than in setting himself up as a family man.. The sooner they both got it out of their systems, the better, she thought. The war had a lot to answer for, unsettling young men who should be looking to establish themselves in proper careers and starting families.

The night ended. Algy said a fond farewell to Elspeth, but not so fond as to raise her mother’s hopes, and meandered off into the night with Biggles who took him firmly by the arm and pushed him into the passenger seat of the car.

‘Do you ever pay attention to where you’re going?’ he asked. ‘The only reason you survived the war was that the Huns couldn’t predict where in the sky you’d end up. It was never where anyone expected. It was never even where you thought you’d be.’ 

‘It worked,’ grinned Algy, ‘and anyway, you always get me home.’

He stretched out into his characteristic slouch and began to sing a selection of Scottish songs.

‘Don’t count your chickens,’ suggested Biggles, wincing as Algy started on a slow, long drawn out version of Scots Wha Hae. Algy grinned and sang louder. Biggles countered with the Sky Boat Song, making up the words that he didn’t know.

Laughing, they got out of the car and entered the bothy, lighting the candle stub and starting to undress. Biggles was wondering what might happen when they got into the bed, and not wanting to talk about it, when, close by, a shotgun was fired, and hard on the heels of the first shot, a second. They grabbed their dressing gowns and ran to the door, Algy with the presence of mind to grab his torch. 

‘Who’s there?’ snapped Biggles, automatically making sure he wasn’t outlined against the door.  
There was silence, then a splash.

‘Upstream,’ Algy said confidently. ‘Where I was fishing yesterday. There’s a pool. I’d say someone has gone in there. Nowhere else is deep enough to make a splash like that.’

Biggles nodded and got the car torch out. They switched them on, and together walked swiftly along the bank, sweeping the river and path with their lights.

Algy was right. A body was floating in the pool where he’d predicted. He waded in and, with Biggles’s help, got the man to the bank. 

‘A ghillie by the looks of him,’ Biggles said, feeling for a pulse. ‘He’s still alive and breathing. I can’t see where the blood is coming from, he’s so wet.’ 

‘Let’s get him back to the bothy,’ suggested Algy. ‘We can check him over better there and use the car to get him to hospital.’

Biggles nodded. ‘I think he’s got pellets in his legs. Give me a hand with him.’

They carried him back to the bothy and examined him in the headlights of the car. 

‘We need to get him to a hospital but he’ll live, ‘concluded Biggles. ‘Let’s get him into the back seat and get some dry togs on so we can take him. Any idea where it is?’

Algy hadn't. Biggles recollected seeing a police house so they called there first; the ghillie now semi-conscious and muttering on the back seat. They knocked up a surprised and disturbed constable, who hastily pulled on his uniform and came out to join them in the car to direct them to the hospital and then to take a statement as to what they had seen. 

‘Poachers,’ he said glumly. ‘They’re a fair nuisance sometimes, but they don’t usually turn violent like this. My sergeant won’t half have something to say in the morning. ‘

Biggles vaguely wondered how a Londoner had ended up in Fort William as a police constable, but was too tired to enquire.

They made it back to the bothy before dawn. Algy tumbled into his pyjamas and was asleep before his head hit the pillow. Biggles followed more slowly, his mind still active. Disjointed fragments of conversations and images from the last few days flickered randomly through his mind, preventing him from following Algy’s example. He was profoundly shocked that the ghillie had been shot. Poachers and gamekeepers were engaged in a constant battle but it rarely came to attempted murder. Biggles abruptly remembered another occasion when a gamekeeper he knew had been shot and having done so, was able to sleep.

They awoke to a grey day, somewhere between mist and rain. Packing quickly and efficiently, they walked up to the farmhouse for a final breakfast and to return the keys. They drove into Fort William and checked on the ghillie. He’d had as comfortable a night as could be expected, they were told, and wasn't expected to remain with them for long. They’d planned to spend the day sightseeing, but the low visibility made that an exercise in futility. Instead they returned the car early and, gathering a selection of papers and magazines, ensconced themselves in the lounge of a hotel with views over the loch and settled down to see what had been happening in the world over the past few days. The weather cleared a little in the afternoon, enough for them to get out and stretch their legs for an hour, before it closed in again. They yawned their way through tea, and then it was time to make their way to the station to catch the sleeper back to London. 

They smoked; they commented on the scenery they were travelling through. Biggles finished the crossword whilst Algy wrote a couple of letters. Biggles automatically looked at his fellow travellers in case he recognised someone. Equally automatically, Algy kept an eye open for pretty girls. Biggles remembered a couple of stories he’d heard about people Algy might remember and related them. Algy admired a car in one of the magazines and wondered if he’d enjoy motor racing. Biggles was rude about Algy’s driving ability. They had dinner and an early night as they were both tired after their interrupted night. Rocked to sleep in their narrow bunks by the motion of the train and soothed by the noises it made, they awoke in London.

Back in the flat, what they had done in the bothy seemed very distant and strange. Biggles wondered if they would ever repeat it. He couldn't imagine deliberately going through to Algy’s room in order to do so, or the reverse happening. He picked up the post which he hadn't had forwarded and began to sort it. He opened a bank statement and sighed at the cancelled cheques which tumbled out and the rapidly diminishing bank balance described. The next envelope was typewritten and looked business-like. He opened it, ready for another rejection letter.

‘Algy,’ he grinned delightedly. ‘The Oil Investment Company of British Guiana wants me as a pilot for some photographic surveying work! I can choose my own equipment and crew. Fancy getting to know South America?’


End file.
